I raised my niece on my own — eight years later, she pointed at a woman in the next beach changing cubicle and whispered, “Aunty, look… she has my mark”

her face with the heel of her hand.

“Can I see her?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face broke.

“Can I see her?”

“Not like this,” I said. “Not because she noticed a birthmark through a changing room wall. Not because your guilt finally got too heavy to carry.”

“I don’t want to take her.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

I straightened up.

“I am her guardian. Her school, continue reading …